Bright Light—
Dark Shadow

Studio photograph of Trevor Wynyard.

Most authors dreamt of being writers when they were young. I did not. And so it took a while.

I kept a drawing at my desk in elementary school. Every once in a while, I returned to it, adding to it. It was a space station. The men were just colored dots. Nevertheless, they all had their positions to tend, their ships to steer, airlocks to control. An entire ecosystem of space command on one rectangular A4 paper. It took years before I called it done. To my recollection, this was my earliest attempt at storytelling. At some point I lost the drawing. So it goes.

Like most things in life, every early pointer towards a career in fiction, I only recognized in hindsight. And like most things in life, telling about that winding road, would be utterly boring for you and me both. So I won’t.

But know this. For all the things I could do, I did most. And regretted few.

On the Shoulders of Giants

Bill Watterson, Terry Pratchett, Margaret Atwood, Chris Carter, Philip K. Dick, Martin Parr, Seth Godin, Aaron Sorkin, Sally Mann, Leonard Cohen, Dennis Jürgensen, Charlie Brooker, Kurt Vonnegut, Nick Cave, Ryan Holiday, Anders Petersen, Bob Dylan, Wes Anderson, Neal Stephenson. *

* In no particular order

The Future

There is a tiny tidbit of knowledge I want to let you in on. Though a well-established fact about the future, it is oft forgotten. It is this: Nobody knows it. Nobody has seen it. Nobody has been there. It is the one thing consistently built upon uncertainty. I doubt that’s ever gonna change. Beautiful, I think.

To me, the world keeps expanding in complexity the older I get. A consequence of ongoing curiosity, I guess. And so I have very little to share in terms of what the future should look like. I only know what it shouldn’t look like. And so that’s what I write.

I'm fascinated by ideology. Seems to me, that every time I fall in love with a set piece of rules to live by and reflect upon, a timer begins. When said timer runs out, could be minutes, could be years, cracks appear, and inevitably all the fresh pillars crumble, leaving only a few stones left for the next foundation to be built.

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Cover for the novela Shift.
Chapter page of Shift.

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